我的老教授——莫里

Have you ever really had a teacher， who saw you as a raw but precious thing， and as a jewel that， with wisdom， could be polished to a proud shine？ If you are lucky enough to have such teachers， you will always find your way back.

My old professors death sentence came in the summer of 1994. Doctors guessed he had two years left， but Morrie knew it was less. But my old professor had made a profound decision， which he began to construct the day he came out of the doctors office with a sword hanging over his head. “Do I wither up and disappear， or do I make the best of my time left？” He had asked himself. He would not wither. He would not be ashamed of dying. Instead， he would make death his final project， the center point of his days. Since everyone was going to die， he could be of great value， right？ He could be researched—a human textbook—study me in my slow and patient demise. Watch what happens to me. Learn with me. Morrie would walk that final bridge between life and death， and narrate the trip.

The last class of my old professors life had only one student. I was the student. The last class took place once a week in his house， by a window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant shed its pink leaves. The class met on Tuesdays. It began after breakfast. The subject was “The Meaning of Life”. It was taught from experience. No grades were given， but there were oral exams each week. You were expected to respond to questions， and you were expected to pose questions of your own. You were also required to perform physical tasks now and then， such as lifting the professors head to a comfortable spot on the pillow or placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Kissing him good-bye earned you extra credit. No books were required， yet many topics were covered， including love， work， community， family， aging， forgiveness， and， finally—death.

Sometimes I look back at the person I was before I rediscovered my old professor. I want to talk to that person. I want to tell him what to look out for， and what mistakes to avoid. I want to tell him to be more open， to ignore the lure of advertised values， and to pay attention when your loved ones are speaking， as if it were the last time you might hear them. Mostly I want to tell that person to get on an airplane and visit a gentle old man in West Newton， Massachusetts sooner rather than later， before that old man gets sick and loses his ability to dance. I know I cannot do this. None of us can undo what weve done， or relive a life which was already recorded. But if Professor Morrie Schwartz taught me anything at all， it was this： there is no such thing as “too late” in life. He was changing until the day he said good-bye.

你是否曾真正擁有一位良師？一位認(rèn)為你雖然未加雕琢卻彌足珍貴的老師，一位視你為珍寶，認(rèn)為你充滿智慧并能打磨出驕傲光芒的老師？如果你足夠幸運(yùn)能擁有這樣的老師，你將總會找到回來的路。

我的老教授的死亡判決是在1994年的夏天下達(dá)的。醫(yī)生估計(jì)他還有兩年的時間，而莫里知道他的時日還要更短。但我的老教授做出了一個重大決定，這個決定是在他頭懸利劍走出診所的那天就開始醞釀的。“我就這樣枯竭下去直到消亡，還是充分利用所剩下的時間呢？”他問自己。他不會枯竭而死，他不會因?yàn)樗劳龆呃?。相反，他要把死亡?dāng)作他最后的課題，當(dāng)作他余生的中心點(diǎn)。既然每個人都有一死，他可以死有所值，對不對？他可以讓別人去研究——成為一本關(guān)于人的教科書——研究我緩慢而耐心的死亡過程。觀察在我身上發(fā)生的一切。從我這兒學(xué)到點(diǎn)什么。莫里將走過最后那座連接生與死的橋梁，并講述這段旅程。

我的老教授一生中的最后一門課只有一名學(xué)生。我就是那名學(xué)生。最后一門課程每星期在他家里上一次，就在書房的窗前，在那兒他可以看到淡紅色的樹葉從一棵小木槿上掉落下來。這門課的上課時間是每個星期二，吃完早餐便開始上課。課的主題是“生活的意義”，用他的親身經(jīng)歷來教授。這門課不打分?jǐn)?shù)，但每星期都有口試。你得準(zhǔn)備回答問題，還得準(zhǔn)備提出自己的問題。你還要不時地干一些體力活，比如把教授的頭挪動到枕頭上一個舒服的位置，或者把眼鏡架到他的鼻梁上。分別時親吻他能得到額外的學(xué)分。雖然課堂上不需要教材，但涉及的話題卻很多，包括愛情、工作、社會、家庭、衰老、諒解，以及最后的話題——死亡。

有時我會回想起在我再次找到老教授之前的那個自己。我想和過去的自己談一談。我想告訴他應(yīng)該追尋什么，應(yīng)該避免哪些錯誤。我想告訴他要更加寬容，要忽視商業(yè)價值的誘惑，要注意傾聽所愛之人的言語，仿佛這是你最后一次聽他們說話一樣。而我最想告訴他的是，在那位老人生病之前，在他失去跳舞能力之前，乘飛機(jī)去看望住在馬薩諸塞州西紐頓的那位溫柔的老人吧，宜早不宜遲。我知道我不能這樣做了。沒有人能讓我們把過去重新來過，或者把已經(jīng)逝去的生命重新喚醒。但是如果莫里·斯瓦茲教授教給我了什么，那就是：生活中永遠(yuǎn)沒有“太遲”。直到他與世長辭的最后一刻，他都沒有停止改變。